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Contagion

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Epilogue

Copyright Notice

This book was hand-copied right by mad Benedictine monks.

Contagion

Robin Cook

June 12, 1991, dawned a near-perfect, late-spring day as the sun’s rays touched the eastern

shores of the North American continent. Most of the United States, Canada, and Mexico expected

clear, sunny skies.

The only meteorological blips were a band of potential thunderstorms that was expected to

extend from the plains into the Tennessee Valley and some showers that were forecasted to move

in from the Bering Strait over the Seward Peninsula in Alaska. In almost every way this June

twelfth was like every other June twelfth, with one curious phenomenon.

Three incidents occurred that were totally unrelated, yet were to cause a tragic intersection of the

lives of three of the people involved.

11:36 A.M.

DEADHORSE, ALASKA

“Hey! Dick! Over here,” shouted Ron Halverton. He waved frantically to get his former

roommate’s attention. He didn’t dare leave his Jeep in the brief chaos at the tiny airport. The

morning 737 from Anchorage had just landed and the security people were strict about

unattended vehicles in the loading area. Buses and vans were waiting for the tourists and the

returning oil company personnel.

Hearing his name and recognizing Ron, Dick waved back and then began threading his way

through the milling crowd.

Ron watched Dick as he approached. Ron hadn’t seen him since they’d graduated from college

the year before, but Dick appeared just as he always did: the picture of normality with his Ralph

Lauren shirt and windbreaker jacket, Guess jeans, and a small knapsack slung over his shoulder.

Yet Ron knew the real Dick: the ambitious, aspiring microbiologist who would think nothing of

flying all the way from Atlanta to Alaska with the hope of finding a new microbe. Here was a guy

who loved bacteria and viruses. He collected the stuff the way other people collected baseball

cards. Ron smiled and shook his head as he recalled that Dick had even had petri dishes of

microbes in their shared refrigerator at the University of Colorado.

When Ron had met Dick during their freshman year, it had taken a bit of time to get used to him.

Although he was an indubitably faithful friend, Dick had some peculiar and unpredictable quirks.

On the one hand he was a fierce competitor in intramural sports and surely the guy you wanted

with you if you mistakenly wandered into the wrong part of town, yet on the other hand he’d been

unable to sacrifice a frog in first-year biology lab.

Ron found himself chuckling as he remembered another surprising and embarrassing moment

involving Dick. It was during their sophomore year when a whole group had piled into a car for a

weekend ski trip. Dick was driving and accidentally ran over a rabbit. His response had been to

break down in tears. No one had known what to say. As a result some people began to talk behind

Dick’s back, especially when it became common knowledge that he would pick up cockroaches at

the fraternity house and deposit them outside instead of squishing them and flushing them down

the toilet as everybody else did.

As Dick came alongside the Jeep, he tossed his bag into the backseat before grasping Ron’s

outstretched hand. They greeted each other enthusiastically.

“I can’t believe this,” Ron said. “I mean, you’re here! In the Arctic.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” Dick said. “I’m really psyched. How far is the

Eskimo site from here?”

Ron looked nervously over his shoulder. He recognized several of the security people. Turning

back to Dick, he lowered his voice. “Cool it,” he murmured. “I told you people are really

sensitive about this.”

“Oh, come on,” Dick scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious,” Ron said. “I could get fired for leaking this to you. No fooling around. I

mean, we got to do this hush-hush or we don’t do it at all. You’re to tell no one, ever! You

promised!”

“All right, all right,” Dick said with a short, appeasing laugh. “You’re right. I promised. I just

didn’t think it was such a big deal.”

“It’s a very big deal,” Ron said firmly. He was beginning to think he’d made a mistake inviting

Dick to visit, despite how much fun it was to see him.

“You’re the boss,” Dick said. He gave his friend a jab on the shoulder. “My lips are sealed

forever. Now chill out and relax.” He swung himself into the Jeep. “But let’s just buzz out there

straight-away and check out this discovery.”

“You don’t want to see where I live first?” Ron asked.

“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing that more than I care to,” he said with a laugh.

“I suppose it’s not a bad time while everybody is preoccupied with the Anchorage flight and

screwing around with the tourists.” He reached forward and started the engine.

They drove out of the airport and headed northeast on the only road. It was gravel. To talk they

had to shout over the sound of the engine.

“It’s about eight miles to Prudhoe Bay,” Ron said, “but we’ll be turning off to the west in

another mile or so. Remember, if anybody stops us, I’m just taking you to the new oilfield.”

Dick nodded. He couldn’t believe his friend was so uptight about this thing. Looking around at

the flat, marshy monotonous tundra and the overcast gunmetal gray sky, he wondered if the place

was getting to Ron. He guessed life was not easy on the alluvial plain of Alaska’s north slope. To

lighten the mood he said: “Weather’s not bad. What’s the temperature?”

“You’re lucky,” Ron said. “There was some sun earlier, so it’s in the low fifties. This is as warm

as it gets up here. Enjoy it while it lasts. It’ll probably flurry later today. It usually does. The

perpetual joke is whether it’s the last snow of last winter or the first snow of next winter.”

Dick smiled and nodded but couldn’t help but think that if the people up there considered that

funny, they were in sad shape.

A few minutes later Ron turned left onto a smaller, newer road, heading northwest.

“How did you happen to find this abandoned igloo?” Dick asked.

“It wasn’t an igloo,” Ron said. “It was a house made out of peat blocks reinforced with

whalebone. Igloos were only made as temporary shelters, like when people went out hunting on

the ice. The Inupiat Eskimos lived in peat huts.”

“I stand corrected,” Dick said. “So how’d you come across it?”

“Totally by accident,” Ron said. “We found it when we were bulldozing for this road. We broke

through the entrance tunnel.”

“Is everything still in it?” Dick asked. “I worried about that flying up here. I mean, I don’t want

this to be a wasted trip.”

“Have no fear,” Ron said. “Nothing’s been touched. That I can assure you.”

“Maybe there are more dwellings in the general area,” Dick suggested. “Who knows? It could be

a village.”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe so. But no one wants to find out. If anybody from the state got wind of

this they’d stop construction on our feeder pipeline to the new field. That would be one huge

disaster, because we have to have the feeder line functional before winter, and winter starts in

August around here.”

Ron began to slow down as he scanned the side of the road. Eventually he pulled to a stop

abreast of a small cairn. Putting a hand on Dick’s arm to keep him in his scat, he turned to look

back down the road. When he was convinced that no one was coming, he climbed from the Jeep

and motioned for Dick to do the same.

Reaching back into the Jeep, he pulled out two old and soiled and work gloves. He handed a set

to Dick. “You’ll need these,” he explained. “We’ll be down below the permafrost.” Then he

reached back into the Jeep for a heavy-duty flashlight.

“All right,” Ron added nervously. “We can’t be here long. I don’t want anybody coming along

the road and wondering what the hell is going on.”

Dick followed Ron as he headed north away from the road. A cloud of mosquitoes mystically

materialized and attacked them mercilessly. Looking ahead, Dick could see a fog bank about a

half mile away and guessed it marked the coast of the Arctic Ocean. In all other directions there

was no relief from the monotony of the fiat, windswept, featureless tundra that extended to the

horizon. Overhead seabirds circled and cried raucously.

A dozen steps from the road, Ron stopped. After one last glance for approaching vehicles, he bent

down and grabbed the edge of a sheet of plywood that had been painted to match the variegated

colors of the surrounding tundra. He pulled the wood aside to reveal a hole four feet deep.

In the north wall of the hole was the entrance to a small tunnel.

“It looks as if the hut was buried by ice,” Dick said.

Ron nodded. “We think that pack ice was blown up from the beach during one of the ferocious

winter storms.”

“A natural tomb,” Dick said.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ron asked.

“Don’t be silly,” Dick said while he donned the parka and pulled on the gloves. “I’ve come

thousands of miles. Let’s go.”

Ron climbed into the hole and then bent down on all fours. Lowering himself, he entered the

tunnel. Dick followed at his heels.

As Dick crawled, he could see very little save for the eerie silhouette of Ron ahead of him. As he

moved away from the entrance, the darkness closed in around him like a heavy, frigid blanket. In

the failing light he noticed his breath crystallizing. He thanked God that he wasn’t claustrophobic.

After about six feet the walls of the tunnel fell away. The floor also slanted downward, giving

them an additional foot of headroom. There were about three and a half feet of clearance. Ron

moved to the side and Dick crawled up next to him.

“It’s colder than a witch’s tit down here,” Dick said.

Ron’s flashlight beam played into the corners to illuminate short vertical struts of beluga rib

bones.

“The ice snapped those whalebones like they were toothpicks,” Ron said.

“Where are the inhabitants?” Dick asked.

Ron directed his flashlight beam ahead to a large, triangular piece of ice that had punched

through the ceiling of the hut. “On the other side of that,” he said. He handed the flashlight to

Dick.

Dick took the flashlight and started crawling forward. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, he

was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “You’re sure this place is safe?” he questioned.

“I’m not sure of anything,” Ron said. “Just that it’s been like this for seventy-five years or so.”

It was a tight squeeze around the block of dirty ice in the center. When Dick was halfway around

he shone the light into the space beyond.

Dick caught his breath while a little gasp issued from his mouth. Although he thought he’d been

prepared, the image within the flashlight beam was more ghoulish than he’d expected. Staring

back at him was the pale visage of a frozen, bearded Caucasian male dressed in furs. He was

sitting upright. His eyes were open and ice blue, and they stared back at Dick defiantly. Around

his mouth and nose was frozen pink froth. “You see all three?” Ron called from the darkness.

Dick allowed the light to play around the room. The second body was supine, with its lower half

completely encased in ice. The third body was positioned in a manner similar to the first, propped

up against a wall in a half-sitting position. Both were Eskimos with characteristic features, dark

hair, and dark eyes. Both also had frozen pink froth around their mouths and noses.

Dick shuddered through a sudden wave of nausea. He hadn’t expected such a reaction, but it

passed quickly.

“You see the newspaper?” Ron called.

“Not yet,” Dick said as he trained his light on the floor. He saw all sorts of debris frozen

together, including bird feathers and animal bones. “It’s near the bearded guy,” Ron called.

Dick shone the light at the frozen Caucasian’s feet. He saw the Anchorage paper immediately.

The headlines were about the war in Europe. Even from where he was he could see the date:

April 17, 1918.

Dick wriggled back into the antechamber. His initial horror had passed. Now he was excited. “I

think you were right,” he said. “It looks like all three died of pneumonia, and the date is right

on.”

“I knew you’d find it interesting,” Ron said.

“It’s more than interesting,” Dick said. “It could be the chance of a lifetime. I’m going to need a

saw.”

The blood drained from Ron’s face. “A saw,” he repeated with dismay. “You’ve got to be

joking.”

“You think I’d pass up this chance?” Dick questioned. “Not on your life. I need some lung

tissue.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Ron murmured. “You’d better promise again not to say anything about this

ever!”

“I promised already,” Dick said with exasperation. “If I find what I think I’m going to find, it

will be for my own collection. Don’t worry. Nobody’s going to know.”

Ron shook his head. “Sometimes I think you’re one weird dude.”

“Let’s get the saw,” Dick said. He handed the flashlight to Ron and started for the entrance.

6:40 P.M.

O'HARE AIRPORT, CHICAGO

Marilyn Stapleton looked at her husband of twelve years and felt torn. She knew that the

convulsive changes that had racked their family had impacted most on John, yet she still had to

think about the children. She glanced at the two girls who were sitting in the departure lounge

and nervously looking in her direction, sensing that their life as they knew it was in the balance.

John wanted them to move to Chicago where he was starting a new residency in pathology.

Marilyn redirected her gaze to her husband’s pleading face. He’d changed over the last several

years. The confident, reserved man she had married was now bitter and insecure. He had shed

twenty-five pounds, and his once ruddy, full cheeks had hollowed, giving him a lean, haggard look

consistent with his new personality.

Marilyn shook her head. It was hard to recall that just two years previously they had been the

picture of the successful suburban family with his flourishing ophthalmology practice and her

tenured position in English literature at the University of Illinois.

But then the huge health-care conglomerate AmeriCare had appeared on the horizon, sweeping

through Champaign, Illinois, as well as numerous other towns, gobbling up practices and

hospitals with bewildering speed. John had tried to hold out but ultimately lost his patient base. It

was either surrender or flee, and John chose to flee. At first he’d looked for another

ophthalmology position, but when it became clear there were too many ophthalmologists and that

he’d be forced to work for AmeriCare or a similar organization, he’d made the decision to retrain

in another medical specialty.

“I think you would enjoy living in Chicago,” John said pleadingly. “And I miss you all terribly.”

Marilyn sighed. “We miss you, too,” she said. “But that’s not the point. If I give up my job the

girls would have to go to an inner-city public school. There’s no way we could afford private

school with your resident’s salary.”

The public-address system crackled to life and announced that all passengers holding tickets for

Champaign had to be on board. It was last call. “We’ve got to go,” Marilyn said. “We’ll miss the

flight.”

John nodded and brushed away a tear. “I know,” he said. “But you will think about it?”

“Of course I’ll think about it,” Marilyn snapped. Then she caught herself. She sighed again. She

didn’t mean to sound angry. “It’s all I’m thinking about.” she added softly.

Marilyn lifted her arms and embraced her husband. He hugged her back with ferocity.

“Careful,” she wheezed. “You’ll snap one of my ribs.”

“I love you,” John said in a muffled voice. He’d buried his face in the crook of her neck.

After echoing his sentiments, Marilyn broke away and gathered Lydia and Tamara. She gave the

boarding passes to the ticket agent and herded the girls down the ramp. As she walked she

glanced at John through the glass partition. As they turned into the jetway she gave a wave. It

was to be her last.

“Are we going to have to move?” Lydia whined. She was ten and in the fifth grade.

“I’m not moving,” Tamara said. She was eleven and strong-willed. “I’ll move in with Connie.

She said I could stay with her.”

“And I’m sure she discussed that with her mother,” Marilyn said sarcastically. She was fighting

back tears she didn’t want the girls to see.

Marilyn allowed her daughters to precede her onto the small prop plane. She directed the girls to

their assigned seats and then had to settle an argument about who was going to sit alone. The

seating was two by two.

Marilyn answered her daughters’ impassioned entreaties about what the near future would bring

with vague generalities. In truth, she didn’t know what was best for the family.

The plane’s engines started with a roar that made further conversation difficult. As the plane left

the terminal and taxied out toward the runway, she put her nose to the window. She wondered

how she would have the strength to make a decision.

A bolt of lightning to the southwest jolted Marilyn from her musing. It was an uncomfortable

reminder of her disdain for commuter flights. She did not have the same confidence in small

planes as she did in regular jets. Unconsciously she cinched her seat belt tighter and again

checked her daughters’.

During the takeoff Marilyn gripped the armrests with a force that suggested she thought her

effort helped the plane get aloft. It wasn’t until the ground had significantly receded that she

realized she’d been holding her breath.

“How long is Daddy going to live in Chicago?” Lydia called across the aisle.

“Five years,” Marilyn answered. “Until he finishes his training.”

“I told you,” Lydia yelled to Tamara. “We’ll be old by then.”

A sudden bump made Marilyn reestablish her death grip on her armrests. She glanced around the

cabin.

The fact that no one was panicking gave her some solace. Looking out the window, she saw that

they were entirely enveloped in clouds. A flash of lightning eerily lit up the sky.

As they flew south the turbulence increased, as did the frequency of the lightning. A terse

announcement by the pilot that they would try to find smoother air at a different altitude did little

to assuage Marilyn’s rising fears. She wanted the flight to be over.

The first sign of real disaster was a strange light that filled the plane, followed instantly by a

tremendous bump and vibration. Several of the passengers let out half-suppressed screams that

made Marilyn’s blood run cold. Instinctively she reached over and pulled Tamara closer to her.

The vibration increased in intensity as the plane began an agonizing roll to the right. At the same

time the sound of the engines changed from a roar to an earsplitting whine. Sensing that she was

being pressed into her seat and feeling disoriented in space, Marilyn looked out the window.

At first she didn’t see anything but clouds. But then she looked ahead and her heart leaped into

her throat.

The earth was rushing up at them at breakneck speed! They were flying straight down...

10:40 P.M.

MANHATTAN GENERAL HOSPITAL NEW YORK CITY

Terese Hagen tried to swallow, but it was difficult; her mouth was bone dry. A few minutes later

her eyes blinked open, and for a moment she was disoriented. When she realized she was in a

surgical recovery room it all came back to her in a flash.

The problem had started without warning that evening just before she and Matthew were about

to go out to dinner. There had been no pain. The first thing she was aware of was wetness,

particularly on the inside of her thigh. Going into the bathroom, she was dismayed to find that she

was bleeding. And it wasn’t just spotting.

It was active hemorrhaging. Since she was five months pregnant, she was afraid it spelled

trouble.

Events had unfolded rapidly from that point. She’d been able to reach her physician, Dr. Carol

Glanz, who offered to meet her at the Manhattan General’s emergency room. Once there,

Terese’s suspicions had been confirmed and surgery scheduled. The doctor had said that it

appeared as if the embryo had implanted in one of her tubes instead of the uterus—an ectopic

pregnancy.

Within minutes of her regaining consciousness, one of the recovery-room nurses was at her side,

reassuring her that everything was fine.

“What about my baby?” Terese asked. She could feel a bulky dressing over her disturbingly flat

abdomen.

“Your doctor knows more about that than I do,” the nurse said. “I’ll let her know you are awake.

I know she wants to talk with you.”

Before the nurse left, Terese complained about her dry throat. The nurse gave her some ice chips,

and the cool fluid was a godsend.

Terese closed her eyes. She guessed that she dozed off, because the next thing she knew was that

Dr. Carol Glanz was calling her name.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Glanz asked.

Terese assured her she was fine thanks to the ice chips. She then asked about her baby.

Dr. Glanz took a deep breath and reached out and put her hand on Terese’s shoulder. “I’m

afraid I have double bad news,” she said. Terese could feel herself tense.

“It was ectopic,” Dr. Glanz said, falling back on doctor jargon to make a difficult job a bit

easier. “We had to terminate the pregnancy and, of course, the child was not viable.”

Terese nodded, ostensibly without emotion. She had expected as much and had tried to prepare

herself. What she wasn’t prepared for was what Dr. Glanz said next.

“Unfortunately the operation wasn’t easy. There were some complications, which was why you

were bleeding so profusely when you came into the emergency room. We had to sacrifice your

uterus. We had to do a hysterectomy.”

At first Terese’s brain was unable to comprehend what she’d been told. She nodded and looked

expectantly at the doctor as if she anticipated more information.

“I’m sure this is very upsetting for you,” Dr. Glanz said. “I want you to understand that

everything was done that could have been done to avoid this unfortunate outcome.”

Sudden comprehension of what she’d been told jolted Terese. Her silent voice broke free from its

bounds and she cried: “No!”

Dr. Glanz squeezed her shoulder in sympathy. “Since this was to be your first child, I know what

this means to you,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry.”

Terese groaned. It was such crushing news that for the moment she was beyond tears. She was

numb. All her life she had assumed she would have children. It had been part of her identity. The

idea that it was impossible was too difficult to grasp.

Robin Cook - Contagion

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